Instinct
by Quirky Writer
Summary: Sawyer's POV on the raft, during Exodus III the season finale, when the flare has been shot, and the blip appears on the screen again. Rated for language. ONESHOT.


**_Summary:_** Sawyer's point of view in Exodus III, when the blip on the radar screen finally appears, and the boat comes to the raft. Rated for language and some violence.

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_Instinct_

By Quirky Writer

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_Beep… beep… beep…_

I don't believe it.

The blip on the radar screen – a little, green thing barely a centimeter long – is coming towards the raft.

We're saved. Hell, I'm saved! I'm getting off this damn raft once and for all. I guess there is a God.

"I told you!" I whoop, triumphant. No one is listening – Michael, Walt, and Jin are all too busy cheering and jumping up and down. That doesn't stop me. "I told you that it was comin' back!"

We're getting off the raft! We're getting off the raft!

Something that looks a lot like a tugboat is coming this way, towards the raft. I have to choke back a laugh. Looks like we're gonna be rescued by Popeye or something. It gets closer and closer, sliding across the water with an unhurried sort of grace. Salvation is moving way too slow by my standards.

The boat pulls alongside us. The floodlights turn on, and it's so damn bright that I can barely see. I squint, dizzy, but gleeful, at the guys leaning over the rail, staring at us.

We must look pretty funny – two Black guys, a Korean, and a white redneck stuck on a dilapidated raft. It sounds like a joke.

"Are we glad to see you!" Michael laughs.

A particularly wizened man, with a beard, asks, "What are you folks doing this far out here?"

Well what does it look like we're doing? Enjoying the view? Come on, give me a break….

"Our plane crashed," Michael says. "We – we were on this island for months, man!"

"Plane crash, huh?" The bearded man says. "How bout that…."

He's a complete moron, but at least he has a boat.

"We were on an island – flight 815 was our plane. Hey where are we?" Michael says stumblingly.

"Well, it's a good thing we found you," the bearded man says pensively.

What is he waiting for? Are our shabby clothes and bad breaths not a strong enough hint to let us onboard? We've been on an island for God knows how long with polar bears and a crazy French lady with ugly hair, we've been living off coconuts, fish, and all kinds of other shit, and all I want right now is a Big Mac. I wonder if we can stop at a MacDonalds when we port.

"Yeah, yeah, we've got a whole lot of other people on the island –" Michael starts.

"Ain't that somethin'?" the man drawls.

This is getting real old.

"Yeah!" Michael beams, overjoyed.

I'm still smiling, despite my reservations about this dumbass and his silent crew.

"Only thing is," the man continues. "We're gonna have to take your boy."

Instinct kicks in.

Michael is confused. "What'd you say?"

They're not taking the kid.

"The boy. We're going to have to take him."

My hand inches towards my gun.

Michael is suddenly fierce. "Hey, what the hell is going on here? Who are you people?"

Yeah, Walt's an annoying little twerp who doesn't know when to shut up, but come on. He's just a kid. Who knows where they're gonna take him or what they're gonna do to him. He's just a kid. And I'll be goddamned before I let these sons of bitches take him.

"Just give us the boy." The man's face keeps the same look it had when his boat came up.

The short, black barrel of the gun feels rough and uneven against my palm. I clutch it tightly. I can probably get two or three good shots in before – or if – they pull out their own weapons.

"I'm not giving you anybody!" Michael snarls.

There is a cold, severe pause. I lock my eyes on the bearded man, my first target.

"Well, all right then." The bearded man says.

The floodlights turn off, plummeting us into black.

As soon as the gun is out, and I've aimed it straight into the bearded man's face – or wherever I think his face is, I can't see a goddamn thing out here – I realize that I'm probably going to die. I mean, be realistic. We're on a tiny raft, at least 100 miles away from that island, and there's no way anybody's going to be able to save us from these bastards.

They're gonna take Walt. That's my instinctual premonition. And if they don't kill us, we'll be left here. We can't get back to the island. We'll rot out here.

But if I have a say in my own death, then I say I'm gonna die fighting – even if I'm just fighting old geezers.

There's an ear-shattering BANG –

– and I feel something hit me in the shoulder –

– so hard that I loose my balance –

– the gun falls from my hand –

– and I plunge into the water.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

The saltwater stings my shoulder as I sink deeper and deeper. It fills my nose, my ears, my mouth, my eyes. I thrash, waving my arms, craning my neck in all directions. Where's up? Every direction looks the same.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The water is crushing my lungs, throbbing in my throat.

I'm gonna die fighting? Ha. I didn't even get to fire a shot.

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A/N: Please don't hate me for writing Sawyer's 'death scene'. But I really do think he's probably dead – which makes me extremely sad, because he's one of my favorite characters. I don't know about Jin or Michael or Walt's mortality, but Sawyer's probably gone to LOST heaven with Boone. :-( You know the drill – rate from1 to 5, 5 being the highest. 

Love, Q.W.


End file.
